Whitest Shoes and Dundie Blues
by Daughter of Atlas
Summary: An alternate ending to The Dundies, in which Angela leaves a rather lovesick Jim to deal with a very drunk Pam. A look at a night that almost changed their friendship. JimPam.


This is my version of an alternate ending to the episode The Dundies; it stemmed from the question, "What if Angela hadn't been the one to drive Pam home?"

This is the first Office fanfic I wrote, and naturally it's in a bit of a different style from my other Office stories. I wouldn't have posted it, except I'm in between ideas right now and I hoped that putting another Office story up might jump start the more laconic parts of my brain. So please, tell me what you think!

* * *

"Can I ask you a question?"

She was staring at him again with that piercing, intensely alcohol-focused stare that had nothing of the ordinary or sane about it. All her hysterical laughter and rock-star screaming had vanished; and they stood in the cold, in the parking lot, too close to each other with the car idling underneath their (or, at least, Jim's) irregular breathing and racing hearts.

"Shoot," he said, too softly. He had started to step away but he moved back now to stand beside her, one hand on her elbow, waiting. Neon buzzed as the party dissolved into darkness. In the car, Angela tapped her nails on the steering wheel, irritated, impatient. Her face glowed in the dashboard lights like the cloud-hidden moon.

Pam's stare suddenly seemed hollow without the low bar-lights and bad recycled music to fill it up. And the camera was there; and Angela, and the crowds, and the faint smile faded from Jim's face as he saw the alcoholic courage dying on her lips. She glanced up, and a little of the old Pam, the desk-and-telephones Pam, surfaced from under the gloss of margaritas and Dundie gold. She said, "I just wanted to say thanks."

"That's not really a question," he joked, but it was halfhearted and Pam was already walking past him, the moment's cold sobriety lending her strength; but then she reached for the door handle and stumbled against the car, and the hiccupping laughter was back, and Jim was forced to jog the three steps between them and grab her arm to keep her standing.

He shook his head as she shook with laughter. He reached out to open the door himself, but found it locked; Angela rolled down the window, staring down her nose at them, severe from within her jewel-lit darkness. "I am not driving with her," she called across the empty passenger seat, haughty as any ice princess. "She is _intoxicated_."

With an infuriated huff, she rolled up the window again, and the silver car swept off into the night; leaving Jim standing behind, his mouth hanging slightly open, holding a still-giggling Pam as faded music swirled around them from the restaurant's open doors.

_Hold me closer…_

"Wow," he sighed, blinking amazedly at the receding taillights. "When it comes to not drinking and driving, she is _really _strict."

Pam craned her head around to peer up at him, blowing a few stray curls away from her mouth. "Who?" she asked intently, then collapsed into another fit of giggling.

"And _you_ are really drunk," Jim told her, unable to fight back a grin. "Come on; since Angela's ditched us, I guess I'm stuck with you now."

"Good," Pam declared, pulling out of his grip to stumble on ahead. "I like you better anyway. Better kisser," she added wickedly, then almost fell again. Jim caught up to her just in time, throwing an arm around her waist and pulling her in the direction of his car.

"First of all, how the hell would you know?" he jibed. "And second, I'm really, really hoping you won't remember that tomorrow, so if you could start forgetting it now, that would be great." He was trying desperately not to think – because that memory was still too loud and too raw, and Pam was practically in his arms at this point, and she was engaged. He had to keep reminding himself of that very important fact, that the sparkle in her eyes and the first real happiness he'd seen from her in days were for another man, for Roy, and not for him.

Right. For Roy. Her smiles were for Roy, her too-high singing was for Roy (he pegged her as the type who sang in the shower; now, smashed out of her mind, she sang love songs). He, Jim, was a decent guy, and he had no right to be thinking about her laugh and her eyes and her lips…

"Woah. Okay." They had reached the battered old car, which was good, because Jim was starting to feel a little drunk himself. How much had he had? Half a beer – Pam had stolen the other half. He would probably be okay to drive, then; as long as he didn't touch her, he'd be okay. Helping her into the passenger seat, with her clinging to his arm, felt dangerously like the third vodka after a broken heart; and her perfume was worse than wine.

"Okay. Okay. We're okay." He eased himself into the driver's seat, checked both their seat belts, and pulled away from the Chili's and the Dundies and the people and the noise. "You know," he said conversationally as they emerged from the parking lot into the skeletal streets, "In almost four years of knowing you, I think this is the first time I've ever seen you drunk."

"Really?" she asked, but she wasn't looking at him; she was staring at her Dundie, which was still somehow clutched in her fist. The tiny businessman glinted and gleamed as it caught the flicker of passing streetlights.

"Yup. First time. Even during all those other Dundies – like, remember that one night when Michael caught Phyllis making out with that bartender behind the restaurant? That was the night for a stiff drink. And I don't think I have ever seen you have more than a sip of beer." He kept his eyes on the road, and the traffic lights, and the stars. It was several minutes before he could work up the courage to ask; "So, what's changed?"

She didn't answer. Jim stole a sidelong glance at her and immediately regretted it; his imagination was thrown into a fit of hysterics by the way her hair fell across her shoulders. He gulped down a deep breath and asked, "Where's Roy?" even though she wasn't listening. And he wondered why he hadn't thought of it sooner; Roy was her fiancé, he was the one she probably wanted looking after her, he probably had official jurisdiction over things like this.

Jim imagined a huge leather-bound book of rules – and in the section about engagement, right alongside the things about medical rights and taxes, there would be written, "The fiancé has total and exclusive right to all late-night drives through the empty city, especially when the woman in question is exquisitely beautiful and ridiculously drunk. Thoughts about said exquisite beauty shall be expressly forbidden to all other men…"

Then he shook his head, snapping himself back to reality. Pam's purse was sitting in the cup holders between them; he opened it with one hand and pulled out her cell phone, scrolling through her contacts until he found Roy's number. The sane Jim had taken over again, the normal, responsible Jim; he would call Roy, whose job (privilege) it was to deal with a drunken Pam who giggled quietly to herself in his passenger seat.

Pam looked up from her Dundie, and was apparently distracted by the sparkle of the silver cell phone. "Who're you calling?" she asked, solemn and serious.

"Hmm? Oh, me? I'm calling God." She gave him a blank look, so he clarified. "You know, God? Big old guy in the clouds, omnipotent powers, gave you your Dundie tonight?"

"Oh, yeah, him. He was nice." Jim bit back a snort of laughter; he imagined her on daytime television, recounting how she'd met God in a Chili's in Scranton, Pennsylvania. A Dundie from God… it was a miracle! (He ignored the seething parables about Pam and angels).

He glanced over at Pam again to see a slow smile spread across her face; Jim had to catch his breath. "I won a Dundie," she bragged, like the seven-year-old little girl showing off her caterpillar collection.

"Yes. Yes you did." Jim grinned back at her; it was infectious. Then the phone he was still holding to his ear shrilled a message, and he tore his eyes back to the road. "Shit," he muttered, under his breath. "Voicemail." He thumbed the red button and tried again, with the same result. Two calls later, he gave up, dropping the phone back into Pam's purse. "Where the hell is Roy?"

"Out," Pam declared, waving her hand at the world beyond the windshield and pitching forward into her seat belt. "He's always… always somewhere. Something. Out." She slumped down in the seat, pouting. "I don't wanna talk about Roy," she announced. "I don't wanna marry Roy. Let's talk about something else."

Jim gaped at her, quietly, but she didn't look at him. He realized that she didn't know what she'd said; like the kiss, the kiss that was still throbbing through his veins and burning on his lips. She didn't understand the meaning of it, and she wouldn't remember it tomorrow.

"Okay," he said finally, "Let's talk about something else."

Nothing answered him but silence. Pam appeared to have fallen asleep, her head pressed back against the seat, her knees pressed up to her chest as she tried, rather unsuccessfully, to curl up as tight as she could.

"Roy should be here," Jim muttered to himself; clinging to the knowledge of Roy, of the engagement, refusing to let it go because it was his last reason for staying sane. If he stopped thinking about Roy then he would have no reason to _not _think about Pam.

Then Jim thought about Roy, about the way he muttered things like "fuck this" and "asshole" under his breath, the way he swung his big ham hands around and told Pam how hot she was and looked at her sometimes with a smile that was almost a leer.

Jim noticed that he was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were turning white; he released it with a sigh, and tried not to look at Pam. (He realized that he didn't trust Roy; he didn't want those leering eyes and animal appetites anywhere near Pam, not when she was so quiet, so vulnerable.)

He pulled into the parking lot of Pam's apartment building, but instead of getting out, he sat staring fiercely at the brick wall before him, regaining control of himself. Breathing deeply, thinking about something else, anything else… anything but this.

Okay. He was okay; they were okay.

"Jim?"

Caught off guard, he turned to look at her, only to find her looking back at him; and suddenly he wasn't okay anymore. But this was not the time for that, and it was not the place, so instead of answering her he unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car and opened her door for her. Chivalry; he was the best friend, a gentleman. As he stopped her from tumbling out of the car, he tried desperately not to look at her eyes.

"Come on," he said gently, pulling her gently towards the building. "Let's get you upstairs." Where he could hopefully hand her off to Roy, who was supposed to be taking care of her; but instead of thinking about that, Jim opened the door and escorted her through. Chivalry again.

He was only half-surprised to discover that, not only did he know her apartment number, he also knew that she kept a key under a plastic plant in the hall.

The apartment was dark and empty; flipping on the light switch and releasing Pam, who waltzed away into the middle of the kitchen, Jim was vaguely disquieted not to see Roy standing before him, waiting. Demanding why Pam was now leaning out the window, waving her Dundie at the passers-by below…

"Pam!" Jim dashed across the kitchen and pulled her back, shutting and latching the window with one hand while he held her still with the other. She was giggling again, her face buried in his shirt, only now her laugh sounded slower, sleepy, and the Dundie swung dangerously from her fingertips and crashed to the floor.

"That's it," Jim muttered (he was distracted from his musings; he was too busy suppressing the grin fighting to emerge on his face. Had she always been so cute?). "I think it's time for you to go to bed."

"'m not tired," she protested, swaying slightly.

"Oh, yes you are," Jim corrected. "You're very, very tired. And if you promise to be a good girl and go to bed, I'll give you…" his eyes roamed the apartment for inspiration; the bare walls, the strategically placed potted plants, the pragmatic furniture. "I'll give you a present," he finished lamely. Pam was grinning up at him with the eagerness of a puppy, and he couldn't help but grin back.

"Wait!" she cried suddenly, squirming out of his grip. "I have a present for you! I have – I have to –" she crashed to her knees and threw open a cabinet under the sink, rummaging around inside.

"What are you looking for?" Jim asked, curious despite himself. Pam's face lit up in triumph, and she reeled backwards, the whiskey bottle clutched like a trophy in one hand and already halfway to her lips.

"Hey! Hey, Pam, that's enough!" Jim snatched the bottle away before she could taste it; unable to stop herself in time, she fell backwards onto the floor, pouting up at him. "What were you thinking?" Jim sighed, recapping the bottle and replacing it on a high shelf above the sink. "You have had more than enough alcohol tonight, I think. I'm cutting you off."

"No," Pam groaned, covering her face with her hands. "No, I need it. I need to tell you – to be able to – and I'm _scared_." Jim leaned over and pried her arms apart, only to be confronted with a miserable pout that made his heart ache. "I _need _it," she explained. "Cause I need to tell you that I love you, and I'm too scared."

Jim froze, his mind blasted blank, a surge of primal panic and unnamed things screaming up from the dark suppressed dreams where he'd locked them for so long. For a moment he couldn't think; then he struggled back to the present, back to Pam – who was _drunk_, and _engaged_ – to Pam who was delirious and didn't know what she was saying.

"Come on," he sighed, swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat. "What you need is to go to bed." With a grunt of effort, he pulled her upright and then to her feet; she came up willingly enough but clung to him, her arms around his waist, her face buried in his shirt.

"Hey," he crooned, tightening his arms around her without hesitation, stroking her hair. "Hey, it's okay." No response. Jim was starting to panic a little bit; he said the first thing that popped into his head, the only thing he could think of that was guaranteed to make her smile. "It's okay. I – I love you, too."

"Really?" Her arms tightened around him and she looked up, grinning the golden grin that made his heart swell until he couldn't breathe.

Suddenly her face fell; before he could ask what was wrong, she pulled away from him and darted through a nearby door. The sound of retching spurred Jim into motion; he followed her into the bathroom and knelt beside her, gathering up her hair, rubbing slow circles on her back. When she was finished, he helped her to stand again, waited while she rinsed out her mouth and stopped trembling. Then, grabbing her hand, he led her into what he correctly guessed to the be the bedroom, where she immediately threw herself down onto the bed and curled up as though trying to disappear.

Jim stood on the threshold of the room for a moment, staring helplessly down at her – his friend, his best friend in the world, who was engaged but also drunk and looking terribly pale and small with the huge emptiness of the apartment pressing down on her.

There was nothing for it. Shrugging aside all thoughts of impropriety, Jim knelt at the foot of the bed and tugged off Pam's shoes; it took a good deal of pulling and squirming, but he managed to get her jacket off, too, without once managing to rouse her into alertness.

Exhausted by the effort, he sat on the edge of the bed, crumpling his fists in the pink cloth of her coat. "Where's Roy?" he asked again.

"Out," Pam murmured, her voice soft, barely audible. Shocked at getting an answer, Jim turned to look down at her again. "He's always out. Always – _out _– away. He wanted me to come with him." She rolled over, settling deeper into the mattress. "But I stayed," she continued, the words muffled by the blankets. "I stayed at the Dundies. With you."

"Yes, you did," Jim answered softly. "Why did you do that, Pam? Why did you stay?" _And why did you steal alcohol from half of Chili's customers?_ Mysteries of the universe – Jim had the sinking feeling that he would never know.

But Pam pushed herself into position and looked him right in the eyes, catching him off guard with her assertive stare again. "I want my present," she declared, and promptly fell backwards onto the mattress, passed out cold.

Jim stared at her for a moment; then he shook his head, biting back a sigh. Carefully, touching as little of her as he could, he moved her up to a more normal position at the top of the bed; he pulled the blankets out from under her and resettled them over her shoulders, gentle, careful lest he break some invisible barrier or some unwritten rule that would make this mire any worse than it already was.

Carefully, he placed her shoes and coat at the foot of the bed; quietly, he searched the small apartment until he found the bottle of aspirin, and this he left on top of her dresser in anticipation of the morning.

And he had promised her a present. Hesitantly, he leaned over her and kissed her, once, on the forehead. It was a stupid thing to do, and a dangerous one, but in that moment he found he didn't particularly care.

Then he stood in the doorway to the kitchen, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, feeling guilty and torn; to stay overnight, with his passed-out best friend who was also engaged, would be inexcusable and unforgivable and would probably earn him the beating of his life. But at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to leave her there, upset enough to get insanely drunk for the first time in four years, and alone.

He stood there for a long moment, thinking. Then a slow smile spread across his face; and he forgot about Roy, forgot about the stupid Dundies, forgot about everything but Pam and seeing her happy again, seeing her smile. Closing the door behind him, he slipped out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where he picked up the phone.

It was not until past midnight that the battered old car left in the parking lot finally revved its engine and drove away.

The first thing Pam felt when she woke was pain. Her head was throbbing, her feet ached, her throat was sore – had she been screaming?

Then she noticed where she was (alone in the bed wearing yesterday's clothes) and the memories returned, in bits and pieces all fogged up with martini-mist; Roy had wanted to leave, but she had stayed, and the acceptance speech came flooding back into her brain, in all of its ridiculousness. She groaned, and rolled over, feeling for the edge of the bed without opening her eyes. Jim… she had to find Jim. He would know what had happened last night, and he would laugh at her about it, but at least she could count on him to tell her the truth and if she had done something stupid, he would help her fix it. She could count on him for that.

She was halfway to the door before she remembered to wonder why Roy wasn't home.

But then she walked into the kitchen, and forgot to think about him – forgot, in fact, to think about anything at all.

The kitchen was filled with flowers. It overflowed with them; bunches and bouquets of flowers had been stacked precariously on the kitchen table, packed into the sink, even wedged into the blinds and left on the windowpane. Every available space was bursting with flowers, of all different shapes and sizes and colors. Even the floor was strewn with rose petals.

Looking down at the floor, Pam caught sight of the red blanket which had been stretched out across the tiles; it formed a royal road from the threshold of the bedroom, leading right to the kitchen table. And there, floodlit by a pair of meticulously placed flashlights, stood her little golden Dundie.

"Wow," she sighed. She stepped out onto the red 'carpet' cautiously, careful not to ruffle it. Head high, half-smiling, she walked over and picked up the gold-plated businessman. She was not entirely surprised to find the letter pinned underneath.

_Dear Pam –_

_How does it feel to be Scranton's most celebrated secretary? When I brought you home last night, the admirers were beating down the door. I could barely manage to sneak us in around the paparazzi. I'm sorry about the flowers – I can't deny your public the chance to show their adoration of you. Not that I can blame them._

_You've really got to stop drinking and partying until two in the morning. _Paper Glam _magazine wants a photo shoot at four this afternoon. Try and be ready by then. I would send the corporate limo, but Dwight painted dragons and vampires all over it, so you'll have to settle for a normal car._

_Love, Jim_

_P.S. Keep that Dundie – it came right from the hand of God. Maybe it'll bring you luck._

Pam folded up the letter carefully and placed it back on the table; then, thoughtfully, she placed the Dundie back down overtop of it. She looked around at the room again, grinning madly, and noticed a bunch of dahlias on the doorstep that had been torn to pieces. There was another note lying in the wreckage of petals; it read, _tell that Halpert guy to piss off unless he wants the beating of his life. I'll see you for dinner tonight. _There was no signature.

Pam carefully folded up this note as well, and set it next to the Dundie in its halo of light and flowers. She stared at them both for a moment, thinking hazily about symbolism. Something gnawed at the back of her mind, something about the two men in her life (one left her a threat; the other left her flowers).

But the alcohol was gone, and with it, the courage. Shaking her head, Pam turned away from the flowers and the papers, retreating into the bedroom to shower and change. She didn't want to be late for work.

* * *

The End. (Or, really, more of a beginning.)

Review, please!


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